


If Only for a Single Night

by crypttid



Category: Game of Thrones (Book), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, just some fluff for the best stark, my kink is soft moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-10 06:44:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18655054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crypttid/pseuds/crypttid
Summary: “It’s far warmer when you share your bed with a wolf,” ever the sharpest blade she catches his jest with her own clever wit, smile mirroring his own as she pulls back so she can meet his stare with her own tender gaze, “not to mention there’s nothing else that can compare to it; you’ve been my ruination to a good night’s rest, Benjen Stark, however might you seek to rectify that?”“I’m sure you’ll think of somethin’. You always do.”





	If Only for a Single Night

Like blood through a man’s body the rushing spring water which warmed the walls felt almost foreign to the touch. A youth once spent as lord to such ancient stones now buried beneath heavy winter snow and the gnawing cold which wormed under his furs, just beneath his skin, as time along the Wall, beyond the Wall, bade him forget such luxuries. But he never really forgot, as none of them really could, because the north always remembers. Fifteen years could never ruin memory, a lifetime not even able to come close to peeling away at the vivid picture which walking amidst the halls of his family’s castle painted of a time lost to fire and blood. He tells himself that it’s why he left for the Wall at such a young age, barely a man, barely a lord, and yet haunted by the ghosts who still walked at his side, who passed him in the halls and in the yard, the ghosts who didn’t stay buried in the crypts below. The Wall offered distraction, it offered silence, and he hid behind it far better than these warm walls of Winterfell. 

Shrugging off his heavy furs, Benjen draped them carefully along the back of a chair before he set himself in after with a heavy sigh much older than himself. The ride down from the Wall rarely ever tired him, the familiar winding road through dense forests and jagged peaks like waiting bannermen which waved him farewell and greeting when necessity bade him travel. His arrival back into the pack always melting off bits of ice which his journey, and time away, collected as to leave only a warmth to settle beneath his chest. It wasn’t the ride which had left him leaning back in his chair, breath heavy and thoughts fogged over and muscles pulled taut beneath flesh, but the precession of guests which now filled the halls of Winterfell at the King’s arrival, all clad in brilliant shades of gold, white, red, and silver, waving banners of stag and lion alike while the Kingsguard and chosen bannermen travelled at their side. Years along the Wall had made it easy to forget the grandeur of guests when the same homely faces of sworn brothers shuffled together to sparsely fill the dining hall of Castle Black. Especially guests of the royal variety. Even still, there had only been a single face which had made itself the most prominent to his eyes, one which had nearly ruined the splendour of the evening like the rolling thunder of an oncoming storm.

Calloused hands rub at his eyes as he sinks his face into his palms, elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward to wipe away in vain the stirring feelings which had churned in his chest and left a pit in his stomach. Answering the call of his brother had been an easy thing to accept, to visit his nephews and nieces who all but filled the role as his own children a pleasant diversion that as First Ranger he allowed himself to entertain, but had he known that she would turn up amidst the crowd he might have thought twice about riding south; he might have once questioned if such a meeting had been Ned’s own doing, but the flash of surprise which flickered in his greying eyes and the tension which formed betwixt his brow had proven his innocence within seconds. Robert’s reaction all but told the Seven Kingdoms that she had been the last thing he’d ever expected coming north, though her name remained ever etched upon his family lands south of King’s Landing, lands which she would no doubt argue were never his to begin with. He had only been thankful that, as she always remained, her poise for the social situation was astute; delicate hands raising a glass to the King’s health and house, to the Stark’s for their generosity in allowing her to stay, having assuaged some of the tighter knots which her presence had created. Still as clever as she was charming enough that the scene diffused well enough for the merriment to soon fill in the silence of her meddling. 

Fifteen years certainly would never be enough to cleanse her memory or the storm that dragged at her heels.

He smooths out the wrinkles which the night had brought as he hears the slight knock at his door. Not left with time to contemplate whether he wanted to entertain whoever resides on the other side of the wooden divider, his brow hitches as the knob gives a welcoming click and through the slight part of the door opening a cloaked figure slipped through before shutting the door once more; he’s on his feet then, caution a slow burn along the edges of his mind, thrumming beneath his muscles, but the growls of the wolfsblood in his veins concedes when his eyes catch sight of the slight flutter of blackened feathers that adorn the figure’s cloak. He doesn’t know if he’s more afraid now than cautious; doesn’t know if that fear is of her or of himself.

“I do hope you can pardon my intrusion,” voice like velvet to his ears, she speaks still in a hushed tone meant only for them as pale hands peak from beneath black and draw back the heavy wool of her hood to reveal the tumble of dark waves that flow into the feathers at her shoulders, “I feel as though every eye is upon my every move here and didn’t want to bring that upon you.”

“Well you did make quite an appearance by just showin’ up,” she turns to him and feels his chest contract, eyes of dense brush meet his without hesitation, pale skin like the crack of lightning against the dark, black storm cloud of hair uncharacteristically loose upon her shoulders, not like it had been when he’d seen her all made up at dinner, but more like the youthful young woman who he’d bid farewell to when he’d left for the Wall years ago.

She scoffs slightly at his comment with an amusing glint that sparks within her gaze as the corner of her red stained lips rise and the tease of her elusive dimples presses into her cheek, he can’t help but feel the same mimic on his own features, “I don’t know whether to be insulted or gracious that everyone believes I come of ill intent; insulted that you all believe I might act in such a public space, or gracious that you all think me so dangerous that I might.” She takes a moment before she continues with a weightiness to her tone that comes from a hidden insecurity, “What do you believe?”

“I believe you capable of almost anything you set your mind to and that makes you dangerous.” He can still see it in her posture, in her character, like an old wound that never heals, the rebellion still fresh on her mind. He can’t find it within himself to blame her for how she tenses at the sight of the king, or how he could see the past had aged her in the flickering firelight of the hall with every feigned smile and gracious laugh she shared among the familiar faces of the Stormlands who filled the tables for the king. They had both been made orphans by war, by the rebellion which had been spurred by the death of his father, his eldest brother, and the loss of his sister. She had lost her father to the rebellion, to the very man who sat upon the Iron Throne. Such tumultuous rage unjustly written on parchment having become a curse which he had thrown into the hearth’s fire after he’d only read it once; she had to witness what neutrality had meant to a man of uncut fury, had to flee when her loyalty would have been made by an unwanted marriage to a sworn bannerman of Robert’s choosing. The storm had begun to churn then, amidst the wailing and suffocating sadness which her bastard brother had written to him a year later, when she’d finally come back to them from her unrelenting grief; a year later had been the last time he’d seen her then, dressed as though she had already planned to join the Wall like him, that she might be the mistress of duty and honour. He had never hated the colour till he saw it drown away the light she had once held, summer flowers no longer clinging to her smile nor gentle warmth gracing her touch.

His family had been avenged but her family name had been left the fester. 

“I’m not a witch, Ben, for if I was Robert would not have remained king all these years,” there’s a gentle nip at the end of her sentence, a cold winter snap that feels more like the woman in his memories than the last time they’d shared company and it makes his smile twitch, the storm still alive in the untamable woman, “and I didn’t come here with thoughts of him. I didn’t come to Winterfell for him.” He doesn’t know when she had removed her cloak from her shoulders or come to close the distance betwixt them, dismay a subtle tinge to his mind as she remains taken up within a black silken dress that falls perfectly down the planes of her body in a rolling sorrow that still clings to her heart. 

“Still in mourning.” It’s the first thing that comes to his mind when he finally drinks in the sight of her, the only colours the vivid shade of her dark green eyes and the dark wine painted along her shapely lips, the rest a matching black which, if he didn’t know her so well, might have amused him more; as though perhaps she had tried to match him in uniform in some plan to garner his attention. She shushes him softly as she closes the distance further, calloused fingertips pressing against the seam of his lips as she silences his rising concerns and soothes away the loose strands of his dark hair so that his face is visible to her own. Her palms are soft and warm against the curve of his jaw as she shrugs herself low so that she meets his gaze without hesitation. Everything she did was without hesitation, always perfectly planned and well done, and he can’t help but fall into her trap as his own hand grabs at hers and he sinks further into her touch.

Her visage softens as she speaks in a tender whisper that makes him feel like the little lord he had once been, herself already a lady of six years when he’d began his watch of Winterfell, “Let’s not talk about these things now, Ben, I didn’t come here to talk about old ghosts or thoughts of vengeance.”

“Then what did bring you here, Marletta?” He already knew the answer. Could piece it together from the shifts in her body to the passing glances which he had feigned ignorance to meeting from across the dining hall to the yard and to her silent stride which had gotten her to his door. She didn’t have to say anything, a childish love still harboured in them both even after the years had made different people of them, still very much the same, just older and worn.

And so, she didn’t say anything to answer Ben’s rhetorical question, acting in lieu of some pretty response which could have charmed a southern man into believing her heart all his own. Instead, her eyes flutter closed and she stretches to meet his height and brush her nose along his with a whispering breath. It’s her version of a kiss, as he understands, the gentle scent of her skin brushing along with his own as he revels in the softness of her touch. He feels her lips graze along the scruff along his cheek and selfishly he leans further into her. His forehead meets hers while timid hands settle on the bend of her lower back as her own thread through the hairs at his neck; a man starved for warmth engulfing the fire’s radiating light with ravenous hunger. She refreshes his memory with her steady breaths and the rhythm of her heart against his chest, the last time he’d held her in his hands so firmly having been before they’d let snow and storm swallow them separately, no sign of rust having formed as she lets out an easy breath through her slight smile that sparks a low rumble in his chest. 

“Tryin’ to tempt me out of my vows, Marl? Is that why you rode all this way north?” He hears the breathless hum of her own laugh with the sweetness of summer wine and he can’t help but brush the tip of his nose along her own, a smile pulling at his lips, the weight of the halls around him, of the ghosts that linger, glowing lighter as his mind focuses on the subtle intricacies of the woman before him, of the woman she had become. 

“Vows or not, you Starks have too stout an honour for me to tempt you,” their eyes meet in a coy encounter which brings a spurring warmth to his features, her tone playful and tender as she continues her breathless whisper, “besides, as an upstanding Lady of the Stormlands it would be impertinent for me to try and tempt the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch out of his vows.” He laughs at that, a husky genuine sound that growls low in his throat and rumbles in his chest as his thumbs rub circles along her sides, the temptation as tangible as she is in hand reined in by her courteous words of modesty; he’s thankful for her respect, for her consideration, as a part of him can’t say for certain that he wouldn’t have eagerly let himself be swept into her arms if only for a night. 

“Let me just stay with you, just for the night.” 

Breath catches in the back of his throat once the words leave her lips, a delicate plea meant solely for him, the eye of the storm, and there’s a hesitation that is nearly palpable on his tongue that no doubt shows on his face. He sees it reflected in the fine lines of her own as sharp brows furrow and she’s quick to press reassuring kisses against the curve of his cheek, beneath his eye, at the corner, as she quickly explains herself with a tired smile, “Your vows say nothing of simply lying beside a woman, do they? You have not taken me for a wife, nor am I asking you to bed me. I just…” Her voice wavers and drops, a pregnant silence growing betwixt them as she slowly pulls herself back. He reacts much faster than his thoughts, an instinctual action of fingers pressing into fabric and flesh as he holds her still, a small schism breached betwixt them that he refuses to let grow any further.

“You just?” a rough whisper, his own low plea for the truth made light by the gentle tone that’s woven by his tongue as he pulls her back against him, back where he can feel the heavy hammering of her heart beneath the press of her palms against his chest, see the waver in her storm born dominance through the uncertainty which briefly sets alight her green eyes. 

She steels herself, collects the loosened pieces which threaten to fall out of place and leave the woman he knew for a frightened youth running from her first childlike crush. The tips of her fingers dig into his rough woolen tunic, her voice finding sure footing on unstable ground as she finally replies, “I just want to be with you, if only for a night…if only for a single night till the Others take me.” Till her growing blackened clouds finally snap with lightning and roar with thunder, he can see the words form on her lips as they bridge the distance in her gaze, but, as is her character, she withholds that which he cannot partake; no longer bannerman to his brother, no longer a little lord, the politics that catch in her throat would serve no purpose to her here and would only seek to raise concern in the pit of his chest and so, he doesn’t linger on the tail end of unspoken words. 

So instead he doesn’t say anything, choosing to close the distance and press his rough chapped lips against the sharp jut of her cheekbone, beneath her eye, and let his forehead rest against hers as he inhales the silent reverence of the moment they have. Time was fleeting through his hands like a snow flurry, his smile breaking just slightly to let mirth coat his tongue as he begins, “You never did enjoy sleepin’ alone this far north, even when we were children. Never understood why you kept comin’ back.”

“It’s far warmer when you share your bed with a wolf,” ever the sharpest blade, she catches his jest with her own clever wit, smile mirroring his own as she pulls back so she can meet his stare without fear, “not to mention there’s nothing else that can compare to it; you’ve been my ruination to a good night’s rest, Benjen Stark, however might you seek to rectify that?” 

“I’m sure you’ll think of somethin’. You always do.”

He laughs as her fingers have already found work peeling away leather from metal and ridding him of obstructions which might make sleep as elusive as she made it seem without him, his own calloused touch crawling up the curve of her spine vertebrae by vertebrae in response as he slipped free the knot that kept her own black attire fitted her curves and begun to loosen the lacings which wrapped her as tightly as his armour. This wasn’t his first time undoing her fastenings with a languid hand, lips curling with past reflections of a childish nervousness which had made his hands slow then as he fiddled with the intricacies of her dress at the time. He doesn’t remove the lace which fits the gown to her form, merely working it loose until her chest heaved with a relieving sigh and his lips found purchase against fresh skin, nearly white as snow, and smiled. Had she not fished for his hands after having stripped away the last of his riding gear he may have been far too tempted to slowly brush back more of her offending dress, peeling it away from the supple, pale skin which it held beneath that his fingers longed to touch once more, but her fingers twine with his and he lives with the exposed neck and peek of collar which he unveiled.

There’s a tightness which trembles within the pit of his gut the moment she pulls away and he’s able to see the entirety of her person, eyes catching as she pulls up at the edge of her dress to alleviate her movement so she can pull at their conjoined hands in guidance. Guilt a piquing suspicion which laps at his insides as the feather mattress sinks with her weight. His vows a mantra whispered along the curve of his ear as if reconstructing the Wall betwixt them, to cut away from her touch, from the melody of her voice, from the comfort which he’ll find with her pressed at his side; as if the idea alone of lying beside her for a single night might corrupt the core of his duty, of his honour in service. He knew of some who ventured south for the comfort of a lover’s touch, who strip bare and give in to the carnal temptations they had sworn to abandoned, but that was not him. Never had he ventured against the vows he’d taken, no wife, no children, his wife duty and his mistress honour, and as his own knee sunk into fur and feathers he began to question the lengths at which that stretched; did this break his vows, a momentary lapse in his judgement at the affliction of childhood affection, or was she right?

It must have been visible in the knit of his brow or the furrow of his eyes because delicately her hand rises to caress the curve of his jaw in a tender reassurance as she softly hushes back his whirling thoughts in his head, motions slow and deliberate as she continues to draw him further up the length of the bed. Her eyes not moving away from his own features as she pulls him in. He can read a thousand questions beneath the dense brush of her gaze, inquiries of comfort and acceptability into her actions as she becomes swallowed in furs, hair splayed out beneath her while he looms just above her. Her patience is like a gathering storm, present along the horizon and lingering just along the edges of his vision that he might just pray to the Old Gods for a safe passage through. She doesn’t attempt to coerce him from where he’s found himself, only delicate fingers smoothing out rough lines across his face with an unspoken love that age had not touched and he wonders at times how such had persisted in her heart, how she could continue to hold a candle’s flame for him when among the southern lords there ranged no shortage of those who wished to unknowingly replace him. He had seen the untamable storm beneath her skin, within her bones, and he had not feared the restlessness that followed her wild inversion of power as she claimed title and land without a husband, son, or lord to dominate her. She was wild and free and had always been entirely his. Perhaps in another lifetime, he could be that for her, wild and free and entirely hers, but here she settled for modest touches and loving whispers that would last from dusk till dawn. 

He settles beside her with a sigh that rouses the day’s exhaustion to the surface of his mind, smiling languidly and gazing down as she adjusts herself within the crook of his arm and presses herself flush along the length of his body with an appreciative hum. Fingers fall into temptation and comb through her blackened crown of rolling waves, brushing stray strands which obscure her visage from view as her arm creeps across his chest and winds around his form as to anchor him against her. There’s no denying the shared warmth that comes with lying beside each other, his free hand shuffling to pull the dark furs up over their bodies as best to shield them both from the chill of the night, drawing it up further over her shoulders when she sighs in comforting relief. He can’t help the smile that crosses his features when he sees contentment soothe away the tension in her body, her eyes growing heavier as she lays her head against his chest and lets the beating of his heart pull her to sleep. He follows soon after, drawing her up closer within his arms as his hand settles on her hip and his head against her crown, the soft sounds of her deepening slumber the soothing melody which dampens the stirring guilt in his gut and instead, coerces him into a pleasant slumber which seemed to have eluded him for nearly a decade.

Perhaps in another life, they could be wild and free and entirely belong to the other. Till dawn awoke along the stretched horizon of the Northern lands, this could be that other life. If only for a single night.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write some love for my favourite GOT character ever to be honest. I love Benjen so much and I just wanted to see something written that respects his character and still allows for me to indulge a little bit too. Might stay a one-shot or might go into a series of one-shots but at present it's just something for me to read and enjoy when I'm feeling like some Benjen love. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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